Whether on stone or wood, slate or leather,
Papyrus, parchment, vellum or paper,
With fingers or stylus, chalk or the quill,
Much later with the pen or the pencil,
Or the typewriter, computers today;
Writers, to write, will always find a way.

When all is gone,
that matters now,
one last poem,
survives somehow.
And so you read,
and so it goes,
explaining this,
in rhyme or prose;
My dear sweet love,
I love you still,
with all my heart,
I always will.